Jean has faith, faith in man, faith in us. Lena has faith in the Maquis. Therèse has faith in the past.
Maybe we ask too much of life.
Freedom?
What sort of freedom?
Rousseau's?
He flipped his cigarette into the fog and heard it spit derisively.
He walked until late and Lena was sitting in the living room, when he returned.
"Join me, Orv. Have something with me. Mom went to bed a long time ago ... I've been sitting here, reading. Cognac? Cordial? Whiskey?" She regarded him intently, his fog wet hat and jacket. "I guess it's still very foggy," she said, stroking her cat, wanting Orville to sit down next to her.
"It's getting foggier," he said, standing in front of her, removing his hat and jacket.
"I don't like foggy weather," she said. "The airmen ... their missions--you know."